by Zahra Lipson | Writing |

Diner at The Bowling Alley - by Zahra Lipson

A constant state, sort of addiction, this waiting.
The road pulses incoherently, mumbling its hurried sonnet,
and our desperate sun, incongruous gem, beats its unwanted optimism.
Yellow anomaly,
you are a stranger to my ice castle.
My igloo baby, my lush comforts
have proven themselves semi-fatal:
their ebb and flow, a fluid disease
weighing me down,
marauder, invalid,
to a desolation, red-glow incubator
I have married myself to, accidentally.

Iron deficient, this lust clasping, this waiting.
What a pleasant destiny, artificially inseminated
what a lovely subtlety, my eternal motionless
stone gray utopia, joy-devoid
my white lace concussion bed.

Here, I watch the projected film of her black pools
begging, beneath ghastly bleached skin, his flaccid sympathies.
Here, one hundred empty seats
clean, dark seductive rows
not only invite me, they insist on me, sheltered by proudly austere shadows:
This is the only theatre-morgue in which I am welcome.